We Are
by Salmagundi
Summary: Others don't understand how they can live the way they do, but how do you explain what comes so naturally? Poly!Nations in a series of slice of life stories. Germany/Austria/Hungary/Japan/Italy. UPDATE: Chapter 4: Snow Angels
1. Waltz

Waltz

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Notes: This is a bit of Germany/Italy/Austria/Hungary/Japan written for a request on the Hetalia Kink Meme. The request was a polyamourous slice of life. I know it seems a bit weird, but I promise it made sense in my head. So, some poly slice of life - because believe me, it's not all about the orgies, people.

-

It's all a dance, Austria thinks, a smile flitting across his lips as he watches them. He hadn't realized it before because he's so used to hearing the music that the moves look strange without it. Once he knows, though, it's like the music was there the entire time and he's only just hearing it now. It's always there in his mind, a melody constantly changing with the steps. Sometimes it's discordant, when they bicker or disagree, sometimes it all flows together as sweetly as the notes that rise from his piano.

Hungary is teaching Germany how to cook one of her native dishes but the electric mixer does not care much for the blonde, and the feeling is mutual. The tune shifts, the dance twisting into a whirl, like the colors of Hungary's dress as she bustles about the kitchen, the music skittering playfully with her laughter as Germany loses his battle with the kitchen implement and draws back, disgruntled. His annoyance is only a tiny note out of place, smoothing back into the familiar melody as Italy bounds into the kitchen, all leggy, precarious grace and smiles and "Ve~" as he proceeds to lap the batter from Germany's cheek, then from Hungary's as the stoic blonde nation turns the color of a ripe tomato.

Japan has wisely kept out of the fracas, although there's a hint of a smile, an expression that might have gone unnoticed if Austria had been looking for it instead of listening. They both know it doesn't matter, as the playful knot of bodies spills out of the kitchen, Italy with the bowl and Hungary brandishing the spoon with a laugh as she tries to wrest the unfinished dessert from his grip.

The kitchen tiles give way to smooth hardwood floor, and somewhere a violin string breaks as Italy's sock-clad feet fail to find purchase. "Ve~?" And the music screeches, cacophonous, the bowl sliding from Italy's hands - batter landing on the carpet, the furniture; first a few droplets, then a deluge, and it doesn't even register past the tearing noise of an orchestra falling apart. Austria tenses, fingers freezing on the keys as the motion draws out into infinity. The brocaded chair in Italy's path is wonderful to look upon, uncomfortable to sit in, and will not make a good substitute for the flighty nation's internal organs.

Steel flashes and the chair goes flying, three hundred years old and now kindling, but for once the cost is not foremost on Austria's mind. He never even registers moving, but Italy is cradled in his arms, and as he looks down into the foolish golden eyes - expression ever guileless - he hears "Ve~" and the music begins again, soft at first, like his relief. Hungary's hand squeezes at his own as Germany appears beside them, faster than he'd ever seen the large nation move before. Japan has sheathed his katana and is using one of Austria's handkerchiefs to dab at a few splatters on Italy's forehead.

He should scold Italy - foolish, useless Italy - but instead he makes a sound that might have been pain and gives him a tender kiss on top of his head. Italy hugs him, as happy as if he hadn't almost killed himself with his recklessness, nuzzling his face against Austria's neck and making them both sticky. Beside him, Germany rests a hand on his shoulder, warm, and Hungary laughs softly, leaning up to flick her tongue at the clinging clump of batter on his cheek. The music is soft, but still omnipresent, a low warmth that suffuses right to his bones.

They clean up the mess together, a cluster of proud nations - and one idiot - on hands and knees, scrubbing at the carpet with rags and brushes. Hands bump occasionally, each brief touch another step in their dance, then partners change hands and Japan herds Italy up the stairs to the washroom and Hungary smiles as Germany retrieves Austria's glasses from beneath the piano, setting them back on the austere nation's nose with an ease that Austria isn't sure he'll ever quite become used to.

Then Japan comes down and Germany goes up - the only one who ever manages to effectively attend to Italy, in the tub or elsewhere. Austria ignores the suggestive look on Hungary's face as she hints that perhaps Germany could use his help. It makes him think of being sandwiched between the two as Japan's fingers card through his hair and Hungary purrs and stretches like a lioness with her kill. He still has a sense of propriety though, and he tells her that perhaps she should be the one to help them - she's quite efficient after all.

As she heads up the stairs in a cascade of eager notes, Austria settles back at his piano. He frowns as he sees droplets of sticky batter lingering on the keys. Then Japan eases up beside him and he turns. Japan is a strange addition to their orchestra, one that Austria was unsure about to begin with. But Japan wipes the goo from the instrument with a damp rag and the Asian nation's calm is a soothing island in the sea of chaos that surrounds their household. Japan's fingers move over the keys with a touch that is confident but respectful, and Austria allows himself to smile just a little.

He doesn't know how to play, but Austria is willing to teach him. But it's when Japan expresses an interest in his dances that Austria feels a surge of pride accompanying his interest. When three damp, euphoric nations - even if one is slightly embarrassed - come down from the washroom, Japan has learned some of the steps. Germany settles on the sofa, a nation wrapped protectively in each arm as they watch. Then the dancers split apart, catching hold of their relaxing partners and pulling them in. Hungary to Japan, Germany to Austria, Italy bouncing on the couch and making those happy noises of his.

Austria pulls out of the whirl, sliding back into place at his piano as Italy leaps in, grabbing Hungary's hands - graceless, graceful boy and beautiful girl. They exchange partners with no hesitation as Austria bows his head to the keys, closing his eyes and struggling to give the music in his mind a voice with his hands on the keys. He can't see them dancing like this, but in his mind's eye - and ear - they move together in that same intrinsic pattern as his notes. All together and apart, the back and forth of them.. the dance is everything, it's encompassing and it's beautiful and it's something that no one else will understand because it's theirs. Their way. Their waltz.

-fin-

End Note: Poly group dynamics can be particularly fascinating because even with a group of people who form a single unit, the inter-unit relationships are all unique and diverse. It's not always a cut and dried - who tops who or is in charge of who else, although I would say in this group, no matter what the posturing by the boys, Hungary is definitely the one calling the shots. Italy is the low rung on their ladder - the omega - and is treated in several respects both like a child and... well... not. Austria thinks of himself as the voice of reason (and he is - sometimes) but they all contribute to the larger whole in some respect and I imagine them as a generally happy cohesive unit. Sure they have their disagreements and spats, but even two-people units have those. With five viewpoints and mindsets and hearts to deal with, it's bound to be a bit more complicated. But happy. I hope I got that across, at least. It doesn't always take two to be happy - sometimes you're just lucky enough to find four other people who fill in all your gaps. It's not greedy... it's just another kind of love.


	2. The Sound and the Fury

The Sound and the Fury

~Step 2~

Whatever the other nations think of them - and Hungary knows they must have some opinion of this 'arrangement' of theirs, she can see it in the way their eyes flicker at every casual touch - they don't all sleep in the same bed all the time. As much as she loves her boys, she knows that they all need their privacy sometimes, as she needs hers. While five adults can occupy a combined space, in practice, one room is far too small. She cannot be forever tripping over paintings or adjusting racks of katanas and Austria's piano - the second one, not the one in the music hall - would block off easy access to the washroom. This room is her sanctuary, as the house itself is theirs.

It also means that when the first crash of thunder rattles the glass in the windowpane, Hungary jolts awake, reaching out across the bed to find only empty air under her fingers. She flops back among the pillows, raising one hand to rub at her eyes and letting out a slow breath. The second boom drives her upright again, fingers clenching at the coverlet. Uncertainty flickers across her face.

A thunderstorm. It's been a while since they had one of those. Determination flows through her as she flings the blankets aside. Poor Italy must be so frightened, she thinks. She needs to go and comfort him. The trembling of her own hands is her haste, bare feet pattering on the polished wooden floor as she makes her way down the hall.

The light in Italy's bedroom is already on as she hesitates outside his door, finally pushing it open. She shouldn't be surprised to find Germany there already, the two of them curled together on the bed. Germany is stroking one hand through Italy's hair, the both of them looking up as Hungary enters. An unabashed smile pulls at Italy's lips as she steps inside, one arm held out to her in welcome.

"Hungary!" He calls out to her, a joyous little crow. "Are you afraid of the storm too?" He is cuddled into Germany's side, the covers puddling around his middle whenever he squirms, despite the blonde's attempts to tuck him in. Italy vibrates like an eager puppy and Hungary is only saved from being leapt upon by Germany's strong hand at the smaller nation's nape.

"I was just coming to check on you," She says, pulling the door shut behind her as she approaches the bed. Light flashes behind the curtains and she contains the slight reflexative flinch that threatens, keeping her eyes on her boys as she draws near.

She can't miss the way Germany's muscles tense at the reverberating crack of thunder, it's so loud it fills the whole world. The corner of his mouth twitches in a near-grimace that he barely manages to contain, and Hungary thinks she knows why. Memories of the Allied bombings aren't as vivid for her as she knows they must be for him but she says nothing, he still has his dignity after all that's happened and she will not be the one to strip him of it where the Allies failed. Instead, she climbs into the bed on the other side of Italy, stroking her palm along the bare curve of his shoulder. He leans into her touch with a soft, "Ve~", even as Germany's fingers clench a little in his hair.

Her hands have steadied, she can feel the warmth of their bodies beginning to permeate her - a stillness in the midst of the storm outside. It's a calm she'd never known until she found them, a different feeling than she gets with Austria, but no less welcome. She meets Germany's eyes over the top of Italy's head and she sees his small smile, responds with one of her own.

They both hear the knock at the same time, sitting there with the quiet of their breaths for a second and waiting to be sure it is not some illusion, a pattering of the rain outside. But no, there it is again, and then the door swings open.

It is no surprise to see Japan - his demeanor is as serious as always, every motion near-silent as he enters. Thunder fills the air again and he is unflinching, moving to sit at the foot of the bed as Italy squirms out from beneath the blankets to throw his arms around the Asian nation's shoulders.

"Japan!"

Hungary knows how long it has taken Japan to become accustomed to Italy's displays of affection - his people are dignified and proud in a way that most western populations are not, and Italy can be overwhelming even to those used to less restrained mannerisms. Still, he is more patient with Italy than most of them can manage, a softness coming into his dark eyes as he slowly raises one arm, his hand resting lightly on Italy's back in a not-quite hug. Hungary beams at him over Italy's shoulder and the look in his eyes is clear - 'say nothing,' it implores, and she does not. Her hands rest on Italy's shoulder, Germany's movements echoing her own as they gently drag him back.

She pulls Italy against her, drawing his head down to rest against her chest, nuzzling into the chestnut fluff of his hair and taking a deep breath as the world shatters around them. She senses more than sees the look passed between Japan and Germany, is pleased to know that there is no shame to be had here. There is a shared solace in their unity, they have hardships in common but no mere storm can hurt them. Hungary feels the gratitude wash over her - that she can be uncertain for just a moment and they will not laugh or cast stones. She is a strong nation in their eyes, no matter how the wind rages outside. They know her.

Her thoughts engulf her to such a point that she almost misses the sound of the door opening. She loosens her grip on Italy, knowing its futility, and he is immediately up and across the floor, catching hold of Austria's hands and dragging him into the room. Dignity cannot stand against him and Austria suffers himself to be led to the others, ignoring Hungary's secret smile.

"We were waiting for you Austria." Italy coos, stretching out among the blankets and wriggling until he is comfortable. "Are you going to sing a song now?"

It's hard not to laugh at the way Austria stiffens at the question, back gone straight and unyielding as he glares down his nose at Italy. The effect is wasted as the silly nation only rolls among the blankets, wrapping himself up. "I am not going to sing that song again. It wasn't even written by an Austrian." He puffs himself up and Hungary can only smirk a little. Oh, she loves him, but she has never seen someone able to take him down a few notches the way Italy can. She can feel the sympathy radiating from Germany, but a quick glance tells her that he is smiling too, just a little. If Japan is amused it's difficult to tell but even, so she, thinks he might be.

Italy doesn't relent, fingers tangled in the bottom hem of Austria's shirt. He doesn't tug, just looks up at Austria with a steady attention that they all know can be unaccountably persistent for a nation who is normally so easily distracted. The austere nation cannot win this and he knows it, Hungary can read it in the way his shoulders slump ever so slightly. A flash of lightning outside and they ease closer together on the bed as Austria sighs.

"We need to ban all those movies by that idiotic America," he grumbles, but he reaches out a hand to rest on top of Italy's head. The words sound like they're being dragged out of him. "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens..." More reciting than singing, "-bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens." Hungary stifles a laugh and feels Austria's glare boring its way through her skull.

She reaches out a hand to brush a strand of hair away from his face and rescues him. "Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudel, doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles. Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, these are a few of my favorite things." Her voice is soft, but clear. Austria's free hand twines with her own and he smiles at her, the expression that always makes her want to kiss him.

"Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes-" Italy croons, knowing the song all too well. She doesn't know why he took such a liking to the movie, but Austria has never appreciated the fact. "-snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes. Silver-white winters that melt into springs - these are a few of my favorite things." He coos as he cuddles up against Germany, the rest of the words muffled against the taller nation's neck. Germany sighs and strokes at Italy's back, the nations shifting again. Hungary eases to the side as Austria moves, feeling his solid warmth pressed against her back, one arms draped loosely around her waist. Italy sidles back on the bed, Japan sitting cross-legged near his feet. It's easy to miss the moment when Japan rests his hand on Germany's arm, the way they fall silent and count the seconds after the latest reverberation.

It's moving away... she thinks, knowing the counting is far from being a science. She draws Italy back against her, feels Germany's hand stroking at Italy's bare side, their fingers touching and twining where they rest across the curve of his ribcage.

Italy's hands are petting her hair, tracing the angle of Germany's jaw. Fingertips ghost across the back of Japan's hand, the junction of Austria's neck and shoulder. They say nothing at this, knowing that it means something to Italy: an affirmation that the often childish nation needs from time to time. Hungary thinks they need it as much as he does - more, perhaps.

The storm rumbles, softer, muted, and Hungary closes her eyes. Italy is the one who sings now, who does not shake with the thunder. If he has memories that terrify him at the sound, it's impossible to tell. He does not mind having to be 'afraid' for them - their fears absorbed and transmuted into something beautiful.

_"E canterò piano in una lingua che oggi tu non conosci, _

_"E all'improvviso ogni parola capirai.  
"E sarà un canto di pace, di amicizia e fantasia  
"Ninna nanna e la tua mano é nella mia."_

Hungary smiles and the last echoes of thunder pass into the night.

-

Translation:

_"And I'll sing slowly in a language you don't know today __  
__"And suddenly every word you'll understand. __  
__"And it'll be a song of peace, of friendship and fantasy. __  
__"Lullaby and your hand is in mine. "_

The lyrics are from Ninna Nanna di Pace (Lullaby of Peace)

-

Notes: It's so easy to dismiss Italy as the useless one in this group - in terms of his contribution to the relationship of the group as a whole, not his fighting prowess. I actually think of him as very important - they all are, in their own ways, but when so many of them are serious, Italy is the thing that can bring them back from the brink of being **too** serious. He's also the most dependant on the others, which gives them yet another unifying factor. Plus he's cute.

Next snippet will be from Japan's point of view.


	3. A Sky Full of Cranes

A Sky Full of Cranes

~ Step 3 ~

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It has never really bothered Japan that he's the loose cog in their well-oiled machine. He was the last to join them - past the early flush of awkwardness at the very idea. Nations form alliances left and right; alliances which might or might not lead to something more. Those like France or even Austria - imagine, civil, contained Austria being anything like France - have had a parade of nations in their beds. Alliances are nothing like what they have here.

Japan isn't sure what to call it. There is no word among nations that does it justice. Nor is it precisely a marriage, if one were to use the human terms instead. They are family, when Japan thought he'd moved beyond the need for family. He'd gained independence from China, wanting nothing more than to stand under his merit and be defined by no one else. Only slowly had he began to pull away from his isolationist tendencies - even as his people became open to the outside world, there was still a part of Japan that drew back from the closeness he'd once known with China.

He knows this is different. None of them are China, that's clear, but more than the obvious is at play. They don't seek to mold or shape who he is - something that China has done, even if it was kindly meant; a written language here, a few customs there... a shaping that was subtle but insidious in its totality. He doesn't want to be another China. Nor does he want to be another Germany - or Italy. They must know it on some level, he thinks, because they only leave a door open in welcome, not pressuring him to step through it. Sometimes he feels he might even be able to do so with impunity.

Yet, at the same time, he feels distant from them. They need each other more than they need him, or so it seems, and perhaps that is fitting. He spends the least time with them - even his room in Austria's house is less his own room than a guest bed for him to occupy when he's not with one of the others. There is nothing of himself here, except for... well... himself.

He reaches back to pull the door shut behind him as he leaves, not because of a need to protect anything, but simply as a courtesy. Hungary comes up to him in the hallway as he does so, dressed in her uniform. "Japan," She greets him, her stance bold and confident - adventurous. She steps forward as he steps back, overwhelmed briefly by the force of her presence. "I was thinking today we might go out into the city together - maybe have lunch in the mountains, if I can persuade Italy to make something." The way she says it, he knows that she expects to have no trouble with this 'persuasion'. He also knows that their lunch will be pasta. And though she does not ask him directly, the invitation in her voice is very clear.

"That does sound pleasant, Hungary-San," Japan says, and berates himself for using formalities when she has told him so many times that it's not needed. He has schooled himself at this in the past and he knows that something in the slip - or perhaps it's merely in his tone - has alerted her of something. There is no use trying to hide from Hungary - she is canny and more than that, stubborn. She will drag the information out with the tenacity of a bull terrier. "I have business to attend to in my own land." The look on her face tells him that this is not enough but he doesn't want to elaborate much more. "Today is the hanging of the Senbazuru."

And her eyes go wide, lips parting silently before she clamps down on whatever it is she is considering saying to him. She understands and she reaches out a hand like she will touch him - an offer of condolence that Japan doesn't feel he needs. He bows to her instead, distancing her with politeness and custom. Hungary bows back, a bit stiffly, and as he straightens, she allows him to pass. Even with his back to her, he can feel her gaze on him. If he turns around, he knows she will welcome him. The door is still open, rocking slightly in the wind...

He pulls it shut as he passes and hears the click echo in the hollowness of an empty room.

-

The ceremony is beautiful, as always. Even as the crowds disperse afterward, Japan remains in front of the Cenotaph. He runs his hands along it, feeling the cool of the concrete beneath his fingers. It is a far contrast from the heat he remembers of that day - blistering his insides, turning his world black. It has taken a long time to recover...

Japan visits the Children's Memorial next, looking up at the face he remembers well.

_"Kore wa bokura no sakebi desu._" He reads, through the tightness in his throat,_ "Kore wa watashitachi no inori desu. Sekai ni heiwa o kizuku tame no."_ Beneath her feet he places a simple white crane - folded by his own hands. It is nothing compared to the thousands of others that surround it already, but it has meaning for Japan. He knows this girl in a way that no other ever will, or ever could. He has felt her dreams, her wishes resound through him. They live, even now, and will for as long as she lives as part of him.

The others are for peace... His bird is for _her_.

-

It is dark when he returns to Austria's house. For a time he considered going to his own instead, as he has done on several occasions in the past. It is quiet, a fact that makes him stumble a little in surprise. There is no music.

A sense of unease whispers through him, like the hint of a breeze, and there is a tenseness in his body as he heads up the stairs towards the rooms. That's where he finds them, waiting for him, as though they knew he would come. He hesitates, looking at each of them, not certain what it is he's seeing in their faces as they meet his gaze. Germany is the first to crack, stepping forward with a cough and a redness on his cheeks that Japan recognizes as embarrassment.

He bows before he speaks, honoring Japan's custom, and Japan feels it again, that flicker of wind through him that tells him something is amiss. He bows back, straightening to see the serious look on Germany's face.

"Japan-" Germany begins, stumbles over whatever it is he wants to say. At last he is forced to make a curt gesture toward the door to the room Japan occupies when he is here. Sympathy for the blonde nation is what keeps him from commenting - sympathy and a curiosity that is tempered with trepidation. He pushes open the door, steps inside and freezes as he feels something brush his arm.

His hand finds the lights, flicking them on, and the sight he sees steals away his breath.

Cranes.

They fill the air, rising all around him, their wings shivering in the breeze from the open window. They are red and gold, green and white, midnight blue and dawn pink, no two the same.

Nor could they be. As he steps into their midst, his feet dragging him forward while his mind stalls and sputters - still struggling to process what he's seeing - he can see odd marks on the paper: splashes of color with no apparent rhyme or reason. It takes him a moment to identify what's in front of him. Fingers reach out, brushing one folded wing, tracing the letters. "L'Aqui-" It reads across the length of a fold - a bit of newspaper - and what does that mean, precisely? A moment later he knows... with a jolt that shakes him to his core, he knows what this is. The earthquake is still fresh in their awareness - still marring Italy's pale skin with bruises - and what rises from it is more than the memory it invokes. It's a piece of Italy; something given and held and cherished.

He trembles as he touches each of the cranes, fingers delicate on the paper. The pale blue of a forint, the bold red of Auto Bild's logo, the plain white of a sheet of staff paper - darting with musical notes. His hands stop at this last, shock fluttering through him. Dark eyes rise to look at the others, and though there is a tightness to Austria's lips, there is also a hint of pink on his cheeks that tells Japan what he's seeing is embarrassment and not unhappiness.

Hungary smiles, a welcoming warmth in her green eyes and Japan turns his head away - letting out a slow breath, wondering if there's something wrong with him. His chest feels tight, his heart skittering like a frightened mouse.

"Why would you do this?" He murmurs, voice so soft it barely stirs the air. Her fingers brush the back of his hand and he thinks of sakura, of sun-drenched summers, of the inexorable pounding of a typhoon... The storm has its roots deep, lingering beneath his skin. He can feel it close to the surface now - tinted by memories of Hiroshima, of Nagasaki.

"Japan-" A voice breaks through the roaring in his ears and he looks to Germany, a wild light behind his eyes. They've all fallen very still, uncertainty written in the lines of their bodies. "_Nihon_" Germany stumbles a little on the pronunciation, but it is his right name - the word for what he is. The other nations never refer to him by his own name and it is respectful, but somehow more intimate than he expects.

Italy wriggles free of Austria's grip, guileless and blunt as he comes bouncing up to Japan, dog-eager. "Ve~ Hungary told us about Japan's sad day, and we wanted you to be happy. Then Austria suggested the cranes, but no-one but me could fold them. So I taught them how, like Japan taught me!" Italy's arms are around him in a hug, the foolish nation's body quivering with happiness at this achievement. He feels like he should push Italy away... the storm will rip them both to pieces if he doesn't... but it's Italy, and Italy is unrelenting in his own gentle way.

His arms come up, wrapping around Italy more fiercely than he expects. It's less a hug than an effort to save himself from drowning.

Another touch makes him tremble, a hand resting gently on his shoulder. He isn't sure of his own expression but there is a light shining in Hungary's eyes and he's slipping, despite himself. The typhoon blows through him, his eyes closing as he feels his control shredding. _Kamikaze_ - Raijin's gift to him - his protection against those who would take what should be his. It will tear them up, and himself as well, for the storm knows no mercy, even for him. Warmth soaks into his side as Hungary comes up against him - not clinging, not like Italy, but a solid presence that cannot be ignored. She is the rock the storm beats itself against.

Japan doesn't need to see them to know that Austria and Germany are there as well - a vibration in the air as they draw near. Austria's fingers brush his hair, as delicate and steady as his touch on the piano. His own hand reaches out, finds the solidness of Germany's arm and holds there as the vortex surges through him.

The storm rages around them for a moment and then... stillness... silence.

No one has done this before - lacking the patience or desire to weather the typhoon and see what is hidden within. They break through the wall together. He stands in the eye but not alone this time. He looks up to see the cranes shifting in the wind - only a thousand but they seem infinite.

_Love._ It's the word he was struggling to find before. There is no simpler or more complicated answer than this.

He doesn't think they know what they've given him - that it goes far beyond a few pieces of folded paper. And he has a wish now, when he could think of none before. A thousand cranes, for the thousand years that he holds for them in his heart. The doors are open and there are no monsters left to come through. Japan fills his empty rooms with their love.

This time when they ask him to come with them, he agrees. The room that was nothing more than a place to sleep is his own now. In time, he will fill it with himself...

For now he leaves cranes on the windowsill - twilight blue and velvet black, forest green and amber gold and in the center of their tiny flock, a white bird that rises with the sun... all of them bound together neatly with a bit of red string.

-

Translation: 

Kore wa bokura no sakebi desu. Kore wa watashitachi no inori desu. Sekai ni heiwa o kizuku tame no. - _This is our cry, this is our prayer: for building peace in the world. _

Notes:

This one has a lot of notes...

This story takes place on August 8th of some year close to the one we're in. August 8th is the annual date of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Ceremony, held on the anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. This ceremony is held around the Memorial Cenotaph at Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park.

The Children's Peace Monument celebrates the thousands of children who died in the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It is a statue of Sadako Sasaki, a girl whose story has been made famous in several books. She was in Hiroshima when the bomb was dropped and eventually died of leukemia at the age of twelve. There is a legend in Japan that someone folding 1,000 paper cranes will be granted a wish and they hang Senbazuru (long strings of paper cranes) around the Monument. The words Japan quotes are written at the base of the statue.

Kamikaze is mostly known in America in reference to the so-called kamikaze (suicide pilots) in WWII, but the word means "Divine Wind" and refers to a pair of typhoons that were said to have saved Japan from invasion by two Mongol fleets in the 1200s. Raijin is the name of the god believed to have turned the storms against the Mongols.

On the cranes: L'Aquila is the location in Italy struck by a powerful earthquake in 2009. A forint is a unit of Hungarian currency, and Auto Bild is a German car magazine.

And a special thanks to Mzaustria on LJ, for beta reading this for me! ^^


	4. Snow Angels

**Snow Angels**

~Step 4~

Italy dreams. He dreams and he loses himself.

He is a child again, at Austria's house. It looks the same as it does now, but bigger. The whole world is bigger and he finds himself wandering down a hallway, brushing hands across each door as he passes. Most of them remain closed, but a few nudge open at his touch. He tries not to look in them. It's not polite, as Austria would scold him.

Italy doesn't look, but he does see. A boy with dark hair, sitting alone at the center of the floor, a sword draped across his knees. He thinks he knows this boy, part of him aches to enter and tug at one hand, to hug him until that stark, serious expression melts into a smile. But his feet carry him on before he can call out in welcome. A door further down opens to two children: a blonde and a brunette. They are rumpled and scuffed and the blonde bandages his companion's head tenderly despite his grumbling. Again, he finds he cannot stop, though he still wants to fix hurts with sweets and embraces.

The hallway goes on forever, it seems, and he thinks that perhaps he knows all the faces from somewhere, but he's already lost himself to the place. The reality of his now has become a fuzzy fantasy, like the adult Italy is still all a dream. He's Chibitalia.

He steps into grass, looking down and seeing the fluttering green and white of his dress and apron. Shifting to one foot, he nudges off his shoe, rubbing his foot against his other calf until the sock comes off. The grass is soft against his bare toes. Italy sheds the other shoe, padding through the rolling green, feeling it ripple around him like an ocean. He laughs, a noise of unadulterated delight, and he hears an echoing laugh.

His heart stops in his chest and he turns. He knows that voice, and yes... it is. "Holy Roman." He squeaks in his high voice, a smile curling at his lips. Holy Roman Empire is running toward him, that familiar brightness in his eyes, and Italy laughs and runs, inviting his beloved to give chase.

Their laughter rings in the air and though he flees, he's not running too quickly. Italy isn't afraid. He wants to be caught. Holy Roman's arms catch him around the middle and he turns, stumbling for a moment. The two of them fall together in a heap, Italy lying half on his side and half on his back, framed by the rustling blades, and Holy Roman on top of him, already stuttering and apologizing.

"Italia..." He says, and Italy needs to stop him from embarrassing himself even more. He wraps his arms around Holy Roman's neck and pulls him down to give him a quick kiss on the cheek that makes the blonde nation turn a deep red.

Then Italy is up again, glancing over his shoulder at Holy Roman, his white apron stained green across the knees, but he barely notices. The other boy struggles to his feet, still flushing, but smiling too - that foolish, endearing smile that echoes through Italy with a sort of deep pang in his belly. It feels like being hungry, but at the same time, nothing like that at all. He ignores it and runs again, calling out to Holy Roman to follow.

A moment later he knows something is wrong. The world is changing all around him, retreating, becoming smaller. And he stands on legs that seem impossibly long, stumbling, drawing to a halt and turning. And Holy Roman is still there, where he left him, looking small and dark and tattered. Italy feels the beginnings of tears pricking at his eyes and he doesn't know why. He steps toward Holy Roman, calling to him, hand outstretched.

The sound of his own name startles him and he jerks his head in the direction he'd been running a moment ago. He sees them standing there and he remembers. Hungary and Austria are carrying flowers, she with a smile and he with a blush. Japan has blooms gathered in the drape of his jacket. Germany holds a single white blossom, his eyes as blue as the winter sky. Yes, he knows them...

He can feel the warmth radiating from them, and he knows he loves them. He needs them - to feel wrapped up in their warmth. As he looks back toward Holy Roman, the grass has given way to snow and the bitter cold of winter. Holy Roman is a small, broken figure, shivering. Italy wants to draw him in to the circle of their warmth, to soothe the hurts he can see turning the white ground to red. He wants to save him.

The snow is cool against his bare toes, he doesn't feel the chilly bite of it as he approaches his once-and-still-love. He drops to his knees in the snow, reaching out a hand and freezing as he hears Holy Roman's desperate "No!"

"Holy Roman...?"

"You don't belong here Italia..." He has to strain to hear the words - they come up, stained with red. "If you touch me, you'll stay forever. You still have a future... " A rattling cough that makes Italy ache in sympathetic pain, "So live it." Italy's hand hovers so close to Holy Roman's shoulder that he can feel the quiver in the air as the injured nation trembles.

Close, so close, and the desperate voices of his lovers calling to him, sounding as torn and broken as Holy Roman...

~ * ~

Italy wakes, trembling. Past the partially drawn curtain, he can see the white puffs of snow on the air outside. He slides from beneath the covers, grabbing a shirt and tugging it on without even registering what he was doing. It wasn't his own - it goes down almost to his knees, which is just as well, since he doesn't bother trying to grab pants.

He wanders down the hallway, knowing that if he opens this door, he will find Japan - this door: Germany. Someone to gather him up and kiss away the lingering night terrors. But the doors remain closed, his footsteps carrying him further into the dark corridor.

Music drifts to him from down the hall... Austria is still awake, though it must be very early in the morning. The strains of the piano soothe his trembling, but do nothing to wipe away the images in his brain. On he goes, and he finds himself at the front door - so familiar. He knows it is real life, but it feels less solid than his dream, a swirling sense of deja vu moving through him. When he opens it, he expects to find the warm summer grass and instead sees only an expanse of white.

His feet sink into the snow and he doesn't feel the cold as he wanders away from the warmth and the band of light that beckons behind him. The door thumps as a gust of wind catches it, the noise distant and muffled by the snow. Italy is shivering and he doesn't even notice it, scanning the snow desperately, looking for... something. The sound of the piano drifts around him, like something out of a memory, and the freezing air steals the breath from his lungs, seeping into his veins. When he calls out, his voice sounds like it belongs to someone else - somewhere else.

_You can't be gone... I feel you here. _

Another step, and he is trembling, his path no longer straight as he wades through the knee-high drift. The world has gone silent, save for the distant thump of the door banging somewhere far away.

The sound of his name on the air and he turns, calling out for Holy Roman; expecting Holy Roman so much that he can almost see his dark-clad form, the shy smile that is reserved for Italy alone. He sees with the eyes of his dream, but the form of the person coming toward him from the open house is not Holy Roman. Even back lit and surrounded by a bright halo from the light coming out of the open door, Italy recognizes who it is immediately and he feels a stutter of terror in his chest.

Holy Roman may be an angel now, but here is one who should not be.

And he calls out to them - lost and desperate - _Don't be gone too. Don't leave me. I need you._

He barely makes any sense of the words himself as he's swept off his feet, gathered up against Austria's chest. His face is buried in the crook of the dark-haired nation's neck and he's not sure how a ghost can feel so warm and solid... so much like a living person. Then Italy thinks that maybe he's got it wrong. Maybe he's dead too. Somehow that makes sense in the fog of his thoughts.

He's aware of being surrounded by warmth - and if he's dead, then the only thing that makes him sad is not being with Germany and Hungary and Japan. He curls against Austria's chest as they lie down, feels hands petting delicately at his hair, and he wonders if this means he will see his grandfather Rome... and what Holy Roman will think of him when they meet each other again.

It's his last thought before he drifts off into the dark.

~ * ~

He wakes to the sound of the door opening, raising his head with a soft "Ve~?" and seeing Hungary peering into the room. Her green eyes flit over him, to his still-sleeping companion and a little smile of pure delight curls at her lips. Italy wriggles carefully from Austria's arms, sliding out from under the blankets and approaching Hungary who seems on the verge of giggling. She wraps him up in her embrace, ruffling his hair playfully. It feels a little odd. He feels a little odd... like he's lingering just a bit out of step with his own body.

Behind them, Austria is stirring, sitting up. His glasses sit askew on his face and Italy sees this and remembers flashes of his dream - the details of it meshing confusingly with actual memories. He is beside Austria, not in his usual bound, but with a speed that barely registers to either of them. Hands stroke along Austria's cheeks, running through the dark strands of his hair... reassuring himself that this is real - that Austria is alive. That both of them are alive.

As soon as he is done patting and stroking Austria, causing the aristocrat to sputter and flush in embarrassment and indignation, Italy moves to Hungary. He curls strands of her hair around his fingers, nuzzles his cheek across her shoulder, resting his head against curve of her breast and listening to the steady patter of her heartbeat. There's nothing sexual about it, neither of the other two are fazed by this - though he thinks if he looks up, he may still see Austria looking very red-faced. Hungary strokes her fingers against the back of his neck, and he makes a soft, content noise before he jolts away, on his feet and out the door before either of his companions can call out to halt him.

Italy hears their footsteps behind him as he dashes down the hall, catches hold of the doorknob of Japan's room - knowing it will not be locked - and darts inside. He slides under the blankets, snuggling up close against Japan, who awakens with a surprised gasp. Even caught off-guard - and Italy knows already, he knows how quick Japan is to be readied for self-defense... he knows that Japan could have already have grabbed him and thrown him, or broken any number of bones, because Japan is an excellent fighter - even despite this, his first reaction to Italy in his bed is to slide an arm around him and draw him close. His other hand is already on his blade, eyes toward the door as Italy nuzzles at his shoulder, burying his face against Japan's neck and breathing in the other nation's scent - salt and storm and ocean, laced with the faint, sweet trace of cherry blossoms.

The confusion is palpable as the only ones to come into the doorway are Austria and Hungary - both far from the bad guys that Japan must be imagining at finding Italy running to him so suddenly. Japan lowers the katana, looking at them, then turns his questioning gaze back to Italy, who is already wriggling free from his hold. Back to the door, slipping past Austria and Hungary - the former making a weak attempt to snag hold of his arm. Up the hall this time, hesitating outside the door before pushing it open and tip-toeing inside.

Germany is sleeping...

With his hair loose around his face, expression unguarded, Italy sometimes imagines he can see another face. He always feels sad afterward, but a sweet kind of sad. He knows that Germany is Germany - he would never want Germany to be anyone else, but sometimes he can't keep the thought from surfacing. Climbing up onto the bed, he stretches out atop the larger nation, watching him sleep with a sweet smile curving his lips. The world is silent around them.

Germany stirs after a moment, blue eyes opening to look up at him, widening in surprise. "Italy?" He mumbles, and his voice is still rough with sleep. Italy leans down and catches his lips and feels him shift in surprise. Then strong arms come up around him, hands resting between his shoulder blades and at the small of his back, and when he pulls away, he can see a mix of wonder and faint alarm in his lover's eyes. "What was that for?"

"Ve~" He murmurs, wondering why there must be a reason, always a reason. "I love Germany." To Italy, this is reason enough for anything.

The other nation's cheeks color at this, and Italy beams as he kisses each of them before snuggling against Germany's chest. Behind him, the door creaks open, three bewildered nations peering into the room. Italy turns to look at them, smiling, and they migrate in. He feels hands stroking his hair, his back, running along one arm and he lounges in the warmth of their presence.

"Is everything okay?" Hungary asks him, and he nuzzles up under her hand with a soft coo.

"Everything is fine now!" And it is - the last remnants of his dream are melting away in their warmth. He can sense their puzzlement, the questions that linger beneath the surface, but they are distant compared to the relief he sees. This is just another of Italy's oddities, they must be thinking, and they indulge him. Italy loves them for this, for their need to have him be just as he is. He feels the same - for they would not be the nations he loves if they were other than they were.

They relax against each other, eased onto Germany's bed, and Germany holds him, pets him. He is engulfed in their heat, the scent of them, the gentle lapping of their affection, and he closes his eyes. Loses himself.

Italy dreams of spring. Of long, endless summers. He dreams of the crisp leaves of autumn and the cold kiss of winter on his skin. He dreams of lifetimes. And Italy may be selfish, but he knows this is no more or less than what he wants.

He dreams of forever. And forever, _together_.

And he feels in his heart that he will never be lonely again.

-

The world outside is white, a blanket of snow. Italy loves the warmth best, he is a creature of beaches and siestas and lazy summers in the sun, but the snow has its moments. He bounces through the drifts like an eager puppy, wrapped up in layers of clothing as Austria has insisted. Germany is there too, watching him, idling after him.

Germany says nothing at this romping, though Italy can feel that he must be both amused and faintly irritated at the silliness - the frivolity. Italy pauses midway through a forward lunge, held in place as he looks up to the sky, so high he feels dizzy. And he gives a soft bark of laughter, breathless, spreading his arms and falling back into the cushioning snow.

A sharp yell, then Germany is beside him, looking down at him with worry in his eyes. Italy smiles, seeing it. "Are you okay?" Germany's voice is rough, shaky with worry and Italy beams.

"Ve~! I'm fi-ine!" Italy laughs, sweeping his arms through the snow while Germany stares down at him, a puzzled twist to his lips.

"What are you doing?" His head tilts to regard the smaller nation.

"Look, Germany!" Italy smiles, feeling the snow cradling his limbs. "I'm an angel!" From Germany's vantage point, he must be able to see it, how the motions of his limbs in the snow have created 'wings' that frame Italy's body. Germany sees this and he gives his head a shake, but he cannot hide the quirk of his lips - an almost smile. Italy gestures, makes a soft noise, and the expression changes to concern.

Germany leans over. "What is it now-" he begins, but finds his words cut off as Italy's arms wrap around his neck and pull him down until he flops across the smaller nation. The blonde flounders for a moment before settling in place - Italy can practically feel the heat from his cheeks as he blushes, and he makes a content noise as he nuzzles against Germany's neck. "Italy?"

"Hm..." He murmurs - the cold, a faraway sensation, "Just stay here for a little while." His eyes fix on the wispy clouds overhead, they look like feathers. He wonders if Germany is cold, but if he is, he says nothing, arms sliding around Italy. Maybe they are both angels, he thinks, tilting his head to kiss Germany on the chin. Or maybe neither of them are.

He thinks it doesn't matter. The past is past, the future is beyond his sight, and right now there is this odd warm/cold lethargy settling over him. "We should get married," He mumbles, sleepily, and feels Germany startle.

"You and I?" He asks, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Italy kisses him until his lips are warm and that frown goes away. "Of course. And Austria, and Hungary, and Japan..."

"You can't marry four people, Italy." Germany begins, sounding reasonable. He may have more to say, but Italy will not let him finish.

The snow melts under them, a slushy puddle that soaks into their clothes and though Austria frowns as they come dripping into the house, he says nothing. Hungary smiles at them, draping towels across Germany's shoulders, across Italy's head to cover his eyes. She does not say that all of them marrying is ridiculous.

And after Italy makes it clear that yes, yes this is what he wants, the others agree. He feels light, giddy, drawing them all to him and hugging them. They are going to be together forever. Italy can ask for no more than this.

-


End file.
